


A Quick Study

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Connor, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Praise Kink, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Dom/sub Undertones, Let's all pretend this is what the end of law school is actually like, M/M, Markus drinks tea, One Shot, Overstimulation, POV Alternating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Hank Anderson, it's pretty subtle though, just a little bit, no beta we die like men, not really - Freeform, these tags make it sound way more intense than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Connor’s inside both freeze and melt at the same time at the thought of going to his professor’s house, alone, at night. Before he can talk himself out of it or say something absolutely asinine, he says, “Yes, I do need it right away. What’s your address?” Markus’ head swivels around so fast that his neck cracks and Connor fears he might’ve done himself an injury. He ends the call and grabs his keys.“You’re seriously going to his house? At nine o’clock at night?”“Yes, mother. I’ll be home before I turn into a pumpkin at midnight,” Connor snarks. Markus had a habit of playing mother hen over their group of friends and it could be quite irritating.--Connor is hot for his professor. His professor is hot for him. They're both grown adults, so what's the harm?





	A Quick Study

Connor stares down at the paper in disbelief, “An eighty-nine?” he asks more to himself than to any of his friends. North snorts before lightly punching him in the arm.

“What? Never seen a grade that didn’t start with a nine?” Markus makes a sharp gesture at her, knowing how important Connor’s grades are to him.

“At least I get grades in the double digits. Tell me, how exactly did you manage to score a _seven_ on Professor Anderson’s final exam last semester?” North’s eyes gleam in delight at Connor taking the bait and Markus sighs, giving them both up as lost causes.

“Easy: natural talent. Plus, the guy’s a dick.” A grin tugs at the corner of Connor’s mouth hearing North rail against the professor who’s rapidly becoming the bane of his existence. Everybody told him that Professor Anderson’s class was over the top difficult and that the man himself was an irritable grouch. However, Connor had assumed those people were like North—they didn’t care too much about their grades. While Connor certainly had the highest grade in the class, he wasn’t used to getting anything other than A’s.

He frowns down at the paper again before Markus plucks it from his hands, “Staring at it won’t make the number change. Let it go.” Markus smoothly folds it in half before handing it back to Connor. “If you’re that upset about it, you can try meeting with him during his office hours.” Hysterical laughter bubbles out of North’s mouth before Connor can give the idea any thought.

“He’ll eat him _alive_ , Markus. You know what the man’s like. You had to suffer through his class with me. Even you barely made it through with a B.” North continues to berate the idea despite zero pushback from Markus. Connor mulls over the thought with North’s colorful commentary providing white noise to his musings.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he says finally, and North groans loudly at what she clearly considers to be lunacy.

“It’s your funeral, man. Good luck with all that. Send me a text if he makes you cry. I gotta go or I’m gonna be late for my next class” She’s up and jogging away before Connor can so much as splutter a retort at her.

“I’m not going to _cry_ ,” he says to Markus, who shrugs noncommittally before replying.

“He made Josh cry last semester. Not to his face, though. Just when he saw his final grade.” Connor pales slightly, but he’s made up his mind. He’d written an A paper and he knew it. What kind of defense attorney would he make if he couldn’t even defend his own writing? He’s in his final year of law school; he should be able to take on his professor over his own grades for goodness’ sake.

The thought carries him all the way to Professor Anderson’s office, but the power of it flees him right before he knocks. His hand is held frozen, hovering an inch from the door. He stands there like an absurd statue for an indeterminable amount of time before someone behind him gruffly clears his throat.

Connor jump and whirls around to come face to face with the man himself. He opens his mouth to speak, but the professor beats him to the punch, “You gonna go in or stand there like a coat rack?” Connor feels his face flush as he tries to convince his mouth to produce actual words rather than another one of the odd near-shrieks he emitted when Professor Anderson spoke.

The professor opens the door and strides past Connor. He drops his briefcase on a nearby chair and sits behind his desk before arching an eyebrow at Connor. When Connor doesn’t move, the professor scowls in irritation, “Either leave and shut the door or come in and shut the door. I assume you have some reason for being here?”

Connor finally gets a grip and shuffles into the office. He realizes he’s not making a great first impression, but he’s not certain he’ll be able to convince himself to try again later.

“I’m in your criminal law class, my name is Connor—,” the professor waves at him to take a seat.

“I know who you are. What do you want?” It shocks Connor into immobility again. The professor knows who he is? He’s in the middle of trying to decide if this is a good or a bad thing when Professor Anderson interrupts his thoughts, “There is a limit to my office hours. If there is something you want to talk about, talk.” The professor didn’t practice law anymore, but he was well known for his brusque questioning and ability to draw confessions. Connor feels as if he is on trial.

“I wanted to discuss my paper on modern law interpretation.” Professor Anderson continues to stare at him with little interest, but Connor rushes on anyway, “You gave me an eighty-nine. I don’t feel like that’s a fair representation of my work.” The words sound a lot braver than Connor feels, but they’re out in the open now, hovering between him and the professor.

“I’m not changing your grade.” Connor feels himself deflate. He hadn’t even got a chance to argue his case. The professor was dismissing him outright. He’s about to say as much when Professor Anderson continues talking despite Connor’s obvious dismay, “It’s technically correct, your grammar is perfect, the points are well articulated—,”

“So what’s your problem then?” It comes out loud and more forceful than Connor intends. In the amount of time it takes for Professor Anderson’s eyes to narrow an infinitesimal fraction, Connor realizes in horror that he’d interrupted the man, and rudely so. “I’m, oh god, I didn’t mean to interject. I was just…I…um.” When Professor Anderson’s expression doesn’t waver, Connor is certain he’s earned himself a failing grade and that this entire visit was a giant mistake.

Finally, the professor sits back slightly in his chair and picks up a random paper from his desk. “It lacked conviction,” he says it without looking at Connor, “You’re smart, but you lack heart. Show me some passion next time and we’ll see.” Connor’s mouth hangs open, dumb and useless. _Passion_? None of his other professors wanted passion. In fact, they usually encouraged them to avoid becoming overly passionate because it could cloud their judgment.

“You can go now.” The professor’s voice startles him into motion and it isn’t until he’s walking into his apartment that he realizes he left his satchel in Professor Anderson’s office.

“Oh, no.” Connor groans and sinks into the couch. Markus comes around the corner carrying a mug of hot tea.

“Well, you’re not crying so it can’t have gone the worst way possible.” Connor accepts the mug from him and nods his thanks. Markus was a firm believer in tea for relaxation and Connor had long since given up making him stop.

“I left my bag. In his office. I’m not passionate.” Markus arches an eyebrow at the last statement.

“I didn’t realize you went to Professor Anderson’s office to discuss…passion.” He says the word with quiet amusement and Connor scowls at him.

“He said my paper wasn’t passionate. He acted like I’m clinical or something.” Connor leans back and broodily sips his tea.

“I’m rather certain you’re projecting here, Connor. I doubt he was commenting on you personally.” Connor jerks his head toward Markus, realizing he is right. He’d taken the comment personally. He knew his writing was methodical and accurate. Why had he assumed the comment was directed at him?

“You like him.” Markus finally says when Connor doesn’t offer any more to the conversation. “Like _really_ like him.”

“Oh, not this again.” Connor tries to conceal his face behind a giant gulp of tea, scalding his throat in the process. Connor had made the mistake at the start of the year of admitting he found the professor attractive. Connor has always like older men. Larger men. He isn’t short by any means, but he is lean. He likes the feeling of being with someone larger, more powerful, and the professor fit the bill. North, thank god, had not been around and Markus had been discreet.

Markus had not, however, let the subject go in private, “It’s not fair to him or you. You take everything personally when it’s not to him.”

Connor sighs before setting down his tea and throwing his arms dramatically in the air. “What would you have me do? Walk up to him and say, ‘Oh, hello, Professor. Would you fancy a fuck?’” Markus frowns at the vulgar language, but a slight grin betrays him.

“Alright, alright. I concede the point. All I’m saying is you have to let this crush go or you’re going to work yourself up into a conniption over your final exam.” Connor nods his head glumly and picks his tea up again.

“You’re right. Finals are at the end of the week. I need to study anyway. Maybe that’ll help clear my mind.” Markus was studious, but he’s nothing compared to Connor when it comes to work ethic. He’s almost machine like when it comes to studying, drawing up outlines, assigning himself chapters to read each night, and taking practice tests.

“Let me get out of your way then. I know how you get. You’ll start out in the dining room, but your outlines will eventually take over the coffee table.”

Connor snorts before responding, “I’m not _that_ bad.”

Markus offers him a small smile, “You study big, Connor. It knows no bounds.”

***

Hank Anderson paces his office well after hours, pulling a swig from a flask he keeps tucked away in his desk.

“This is a fucking problem,” he says to the empty room before slouching down with ill grace into his chair. “He’s a _student_ ,” he says firmly to himself, “and you are his professor. You are also way too old for him and you’re being ridiculous. Cut this shit out now.” Hank realizes talking to himself is probably not scoring any points for sanity so he shuts up in favor of taking another mouthful from the flask.

Even without being absurdly smart, Hank would’ve noticed Connor sooner or later. He was beautiful and well built. Not brawny, but still muscled. Hank would use the word lithe if it didn’t make him sound like a perverted old professor hot for one of his students.

Which he is, but that’s entirely beside the point.

He was honestly surprised to see Connor standing outside his office door. He had let his eyes linger on the younger man’s backside for longer than was strictly appropriate before speaking. His terrified expression made him look younger than Hank knew he had to be. Most third-year law students were in their late twenties, but the urge to refer to his as kid remained.

Which brings him back to his original point: stop being a letch.

His eyes drift back to the bag Connor had left behind. Hank had agonized over whether it was intentional or accidental. Was the kid (fuck it, there it is, he’s stuck as _the kid_ now) leaving an excuse to have to come back or had he been so freaked out that he bolted without it?

Hank allows himself a low chuckle when he remembers the deer in headlights look Connor had given him when he interrupted Hank. Not many students dared to interrupt Hank; fewer got to survive the incident without being reduced to tears. Hank knows he’s a large, intimidating man and he knows how to use it to his advantage.

He sighs and rubs his eyes. There’s no point in thinking about any of this anyway. Connor is a student and there is a zero percent chance he’s interested in Hank at all. Hank grabs Connor’s bag to take home with him. He doesn’t exactly distrust the school’s security, but he’s had his office broken into enough times that he doesn’t like to leave anything valuable behind. He resolves himself to give the kid back his bag whenever he sees him next and to stop thinking about him in any way other than as a student.

His willpower lasts him until he gets home and drops the bag on his living room table. His giant St. Bernard gives the bag a cursory sniff and immediately starts trying to nose the thing open. Hank shouts at him to leave it alone, but the big dog has the bag open and on the floor a second later, scattering its contents.

Grumbling, Hank drops to his knees to gather everything back up to put it away. Hank freezes when his hands glide over a tablet and the screen lights up. Connor’s lock screen is a picture of Hank. He’s struck immobile by the realization and is sorely tempted to try to hack into the device. Granted, it’s not truly a picture of him. It’s a screenshot from a newspaper article about him. It’s a few years old from when Hank still practiced law in favor of only teaching it. Still, a large part of the article is a picture of Hank, standing in a courtroom.

“Don’t even think about it,” he tells himself firmly, “It doesn’t mean anything.” His subconscious laughs at him while he resolutely ignores the semi he’s been sporting since realizing Connor looks at his picture every damn day. “What would you want with a bratty 20 something anyway?”

 _What’s your problem then?_ repeats in the back of his mind and Hank thinks of Connor’s smart mouth and what he’d like to do with it—

Hank rubs his fists into his eyes trying to erase the scenarios the more perverted part of his mind keeps generating. It’s going to be a long week and he knows it. One more week and he won’t have to deal with Connor or his pretty mouth ever again.

***

Connor avoids going to see Professor Anderson for as long as he can. He’d rather pretend the entire disaster of a meeting hadn’t happened, but his missing satchel is a constant reminder that it did. It’s been two days and the level of embarrassment still hadn’t abated.

Frustrated over the lack of progress he’s making in his studies, he throws his book down, “I _need_ my tablet. It has all of my outlines on it. I can’t believe I left my bag.” It’s the third time he’s said it that evening and Markus is tired of hearing it.

“Can you email him?” He’s suggested it once already, but Connor made a choking hysterical sound so Markus had let it go. “Seriously, he must know he has your bag. Just email him and ask him if you can come get it.”

“He’s probably not in his office at this time of night,” Connor hears how whiney he sounds and sighs, “Fine. I’ll email him. If only because it’s better than doing nothing.” Markus offers him a half-hearted _hear, hear_ while Connor taps out a succinct email. He sends it before he can over-analyze every sentence.

_Professor Anderson,_

_I left my bag in your office after our meeting. Is there any chance I can come pick it up? It has notes I need._

_Sincerely,  
Connor_

To his surprise, he gets an immediate response.

_Professor Anderson is out of the office. If you have an emergency and need to talk to him, you can reach him at 555-…_

Connor’s mind goes blank as he takes in the rest of the email, realizing he has Professor Anderson’s phone number. “There’s no way it’s his personal number, right? It has to be a work phone or something.” Markus shrugs and goes back to his own studying.

Connor dials the number, expecting to reach a voicemail or some kind of recording service when he hears the telltale click of someone answering.

“Hello.” It’s gruff and not a question. It’s also undeniably his professor.

“Oh, no.” It escapes his lips without his bidding and Connor claps a hand over his mouth as if he can shove the words back in.

“The fuck? Who is this?” Connor closes his eyes and counts to three before he trusts his voice to speak at a normal volume.

“This is Connor, sir. I left my bag in your office and I—,”

“How the fuck do you have my number?” Connor knew the professor swore a lot more than most of his teachers, but any attempt to keep it to a minimum didn’t seem to carry over to after hours.

“I sent you an email…there was an auto-response with your number so I…called it?” He hears it come out of his mouth as a question and feels infinitely stupid.

“I’m going to fucking kill Brenda.”

The statement takes Connor by surprise, “What?”

Hank sighs before explaining, “Nothing. My assistant. She likes to be _helpful_. Some fucking help, students calling me at all hours of the night.”

Hank grumbles on for a minute or so before Connor tries to bring the conversation back on track, “So, um, my bag. Do you have it?”

The professor is oddly quiet before offering, “Yeah, I do. D’ya need it?” Connor’s sigh of relief must be answer enough for his professor, “I’m not at the office as you well know, but you can come pick it up from my house if you have to have it tonight.”

Connor’s inside both freeze and melt at the same time at the thought of going to his professor’s house, alone, at night. Before he can talk himself out of it or say something absolutely asinine, he says, “Yes, I do need it right away. What’s your address?” Markus’ head swivels around so fast that his neck cracks and Connor fears he might’ve done himself an injury. He ends the call and grabs his keys.

“You’re seriously going to his house? At nine o’clock at night?”

“Yes, mother. I’ll be home before I turn into a pumpkin at midnight,” Connor snarks. Markus had a habit of playing mother hen over their group of friends and it could be quite irritating.

He holds his hands up in mock submission, “You’re a big boy; I get it. Go get your bag. I’m going to bed.”

The drive to his professor’s house isn’t a long one, but a significant number of nerves manage to break free and run rampant around his stomach. After punching the doorbell, his anxiety gets the better of him and his fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt trying to relieve the tension. He hears heavy footfalls behind the door and his unimpressed professor greets him.

Connor’s eyes dart from his professor’s face to his hands then back to his face. He was expecting him to shove the bag at him and tell him to be on his way. He stands on the stoop waiting before his professor steps aside and beckons him inside.

“Good evening, professor. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I really need my bag.” Connor shifts from one foot to the other, searching for any sign of his satchel.

“So I gathered from your panicky phone call.” Irritation blooms in Connor’s gut and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I was _not_ panicky!” He knows it sounds petulant and immature as he says it and he groans before hiding his face behind his hands, “Can I please just have my bag before I say anything else that’s rude or embarrassing?” It’s quiet and muffled and Hank cracks an amused smile that Connor doesn’t see from behind his fingers.

“That’s not much of an apology.” Connor’s skin prickles at his professor’s velvety tone and, if he didn’t know any better, he’d swear his professor was flirting with him. “Actually, I’d say you owe me two now.” Connor’s face must show his confusion because his professor adds, “For your behavior a couple of days ago and just now,” before crossing his arms over his broad chest. Connor’s mind runs over their conversation in Professor Anderson’s office and he sinks onto the living room couch.

“Oh my god. Please, just tell me now if you’re going to fail me. At least then I won’t have to study for the final.” He’s surprised to hear his professor laugh.

“Relax, kid. I’m not gonna fail you. I don’t fail people for being brats.”

Connor wrinkles his nose at being called a kid and a brat in under five seconds, “I’m not a child.” This earns another laugh and his professor joins him on the couch. Connor tries to bolt upwards again before a large hand grips his wrist and yanks him back down. Professor Anderson reaches under his coffee table and pulls out Connor’s bag.

“Yours, I believe. Sorry the contents are a bit of a mess. Sumo over there had a look-see when I first brought it home,” Connor’s eyes dart to the large, sleeping dog Professor Anderson was gesturing at. “Interesting choice of background for your tablet.” He says it casually, and it takes Connor a moment to realize what his professor is saying.

Horrifying embarrassment roots him to the spot before his professor’s chuckling breaks whatever spell is holding him in place. “Good luck on your exams, kid.” He rises from the couch and extends a hand to Connor. Connor eyes it for a moment, trying to interpret what’s happening right now before taking it. The professor’s hand is warm and dwarfs Connor’s in comparison.

Connor stares at their connected hands and it takes him a moment too long to realize he should’ve let go by now. His eyes dart up to Professor Anderson’s and find the briefest hint of desire there. With a terrified squeak of thanks, Connor grabs his bag and all but runs back to his car, heart hammering in his chest the entire way.

***

The week finally comes to an end, and Hank passes Connor with flying colors. By his standards anyway. It’s Saturday evening and Hank feels more than ready to relax with some beer and no thoughts of students. With exams over, he can unwind until the summer semester picks up in a few weeks.

He’s not expecting someone to hammer on his door at 10:30 at night.

When he opens it, he finds a very irate Connor glaring at him, clenching a phone in his hand. “A ninety-one?” he all but shrieks it and Hank ushers him inside to avoid making a scene for his neighbors. “Oh, no, wait. And I _quote_ ,” he says the word with righteous indignation, “‘ _A much better attempt at passion._ ’” Connor is shoving the phone into Hank’s face, and he realizes Connor must’ve accessed his final grade and exam comments online.

Hank’s staring at him at a loss. No student has ever dared to scream at him before and his mind hasn’t decided on a response yet. Before he can speak, Connor shouts at him, “ATTEMPT?” before throwing his arms in the air, looking to the ceiling for answers.

“It was better than your last one you came caterwauling at me about.” Connor seems to realize he’s been shouting because he looks slightly chagrinned. “What can I do for you, Connor?” Hank’s absurd politeness appears to disarm him. He had clearly come looking for a fight, but Hank isn’t giving him the satisfaction. Connor sways slightly, and Hank suspects Connor is drunk or at least buzzed.

“I’m waiting, Connor.” Hank’s voice is stern and it has a curious effect on Connor. Most students shrink away from it, but Connor radiates something bordering on longing. Hank’s had his suspicions since their last meeting, and Connor is checking all the remaining boxes.

“Oh, shit.” It comes out as a whisper and Connor tries to navigate to Hank’s couch to sit down, his steps a little unsure. Putting more of his theory to the test, Hank steps in Connor’s way at the last moment, forcing him to collide with Hank’s chest. Connor’s hands fly up and he feels the muscle there. His fingers tense slightly and Hank arches an eyebrow at him.

A deep blush consumes Connor’s face at being caught feeling up his professor’s chest. “Like what you feel, kid?” Connor jerks his face down and to the side, looking away and trying to hide, but not stepping back. Hank grabs his chin and forces their eyes to meet. “I asked you a question, Connor.” Eyes widening slightly, Hank can see the betraying dilation of Connor’s pupils.

Connor makes a strangled moaning sound and leans his face into Hank’s neck, trying to hide his mortification. Hank stiffens slightly at the contact and wonders briefly how much of this is because Connor wants to touch him and how much of it is the alcohol in his system. Seeming to realize what he’s doing, Connor releases his hold on Hank’s shirt and stumbles backward a couple of steps.

“I shouldn’t be here, professor. I should go.” Connor’s trying to escape, but Hank’s not one to let his target get away that easily. Lawyerly instincts surge back to life, countering Connor, planting seeds to lead him where Hank wants to go.

“I’m not your professor, Connor. Not as of ten hours ago when you turned in your final.” Hank observes the effect these words have on Connor, and he’s not disappointed. “Your grade stands, by the way.” Hank watches Connor bristle and he has to hide a smile. “Besides, you’re clearly tipsy. You’re not driving anywhere anytime soon.” Hank pauses before narrowing his eyes, “How’d you get here?”

Connor immediately launches into an explanation, “I didn’t drive! We—my friends and I, I mean—we were out celebrating finals being over. I checked my email and saw you had posted grades already. I was…angry. I _told_ North shots were a bad idea, but noooo…” Hank lets Connor rant for a bit, enjoying how he looks when he’s riled up, “And then they wanted to leave so we got an Uber. But! A ninety-one! And that comment. Attempt, my ass.” Hank’s mouth twitches slightly at the profanity coming from Connor. He can guess the rest. Connor, fueled with some liquid courage, had the Uber drop him at Hank’s house.

“Your _ass_ , “Hank emphasizes the word on purpose, and Connor’s face rewards him with another flush, “is sleeping on my couch tonight.” Connor visibly jerks at the statement but doesn’t offer any resistance. Hank knows he could call another Uber, _should_ call one, but a baser, less mature part of him very much wants to see sober Connor’s reaction to waking up in Hank’s house.

“Fine,” Connor says it like he had a choice before adding, “Can I use your bathroom?”

Hank steps aside and makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, “It’s down the hall. There should be a spare toothbrush in there. I don’t know about you, but hangovers are always worse if you wake up with your mouth tasting like a dumpster.”

Connor takes a few steps and is about to walk past Hank when he mutters, “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Hank’s hand moves of its own volition, connecting hard with the seat of Connor’s pants. He feels the firm muscle of Connor’s ass for a second before realizing what he’s just done. He pulls his arm back, gauging Connor’s reaction. Connor’s head swivels to stare at Hank from over his own shoulder. His body doesn’t appear to want to move, his mouth sagging slightly.

Intense, hungry desire pulses for an instant behind Connor’s eyes and Hank makes a mental note of it. “I don’t tolerate sass. Goodnight, Connor.” He strides past Connor, confident and sure. Connor watches him the entire way until Hank closes his bedroom door.

***

Connor wakes up to a _whoomp_ noise followed by a heavy St. Bernard head landing with zero grace on his stomach. He groans and tries to shove the animal away, but the dog just keeps coming until he’s fully on top of Connor.

“C’mon, Sumo. Get down.” Connor wheezes out from under the dog’s considerable bulk. Sumo seems prepared to sit right where he is until the next century, so Connor changes tactics. “Sumo want a treat?” It does the trick and the dog scrambles off of him, punching out what little remains of his oxygen supply. After gasping air back into his lungs, Connor goes to follow the dog into the kitchen.

The dog treats are easy to locate, and a satisfied Sumo wanders off with them in his mouth to his bed. He flops down and chomps on his prize. Connor’s stomach gurgles loudly and the hint of a headache threatens to become a full-blown hangover if he doesn’t eat something greasy and soon. Hank’s refrigerator is more than happy to oblige, containing a bachelor’s paradise of bacon, cheese, and other unhealthy things. Markus would have a fit over it.

Connor smiles at the thought and goes about frying some bacon and eggs, mouth watering at the thought of a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich.

“Well, made yourself at home, did you?” Connor nearly drops the spatula in his hand. He whirls around clutching it like a weapon. Professor Anderson leans against the entrance to the kitchen, a suggestion of a smile dancing around his mouth. He’s amused. Not angry. Thank god. Connor’s mind prods at him, _He’s not your professor anymore_ , and he realizes he has no idea what to call him.

“Good morning,” his mouth doesn’t want to comply and he has a hard time getting out his name, “Hank.” Hank’s reaction is immediate laughter.

“It’s better than Professor Anderson, I guess.” He walks over to Connor, stretching his arms overhead, exposing a moderate portion of stomach. Connor stares, hand gripping the spatula so tight, his knuckles go white. He has no idea if Hank noticed so he turns back to the food frying on the stove before he can further embarrass himself.

 _He has tattoos._ Connor’s mind won’t let the image go. He only saw a fraction of it, but, now that he knows it’s there, he wants to see the entirety of it, run his hands over it and—

Hank’s hand engulfing his shakes him out of his daydream.

“You’re gonna burn the bacon if you don’t get out of that head of yours.” He takes the spatula with ease and flips the bacon before slipping the eggs out of the pan and onto a plate Connor had set aside earlier. Hank’s presence crowds into Connor’s personal space, making him feel much smaller than he knows he is.

“Here you go, kid.” Hank thrusts a plate with bacon and eggs on it, “Doctor it up however you like.” He gestures at the cheese and bread on the counter. Connor does as he’s told, mostly because he’s hungry, but he scowls nonetheless.

“I’m not a kid.” Connor’s made this assertion before, but he needs Hank to understand that it’s important to him. “I…I started law school later than most. I’m thirty-two.” Hank raises his eyebrows in surprise. Connor can tell Hank thought he was younger. It’s not surprising, most of his classmates are riding the edge of mid to late twenties.

“Well. Makes me feel like less of a creep.” Connor almost drops his plate, and his eyes flit to examine Hank’s face. Hank’s profile doesn’t give much away, but unless Connor had imagined it…

“Are you coming on to me?”

Hank gives an easy shrug as he assembles his own breakfast, adding quite a bit more cheese than Connor had. “I didn’t try to beat down your door, three sheets to the wind might I add, at a wholly inappropriate time of night. That’s about as open an invitation as I’ve ever seen.”

Connor feels heat engulf his face, but a small part of him is feeling combative, “I wasn’t _that_ drunk.” He hears how childish it sounds and decides to stuff as much of his sandwich into his mouth as he can. At least this way, he can’t embarrass himself any further.

Life has a funny way of taking Connor’s best intentions and turning them on their head. He tries to swallow his overly large bite and manages to choke instead. He holds up a hand, trying to indicate he’s fine, but when his situation doesn’t improve, Hank rises to clap a large hand against his back.

If he wasn’t already choking, the feeling of Hank’s hand on his back would probably have made breathing impossible anyway. “Thanks,” it comes out sounding strained, his vocal cords not quite up to talking yet. His phone pinging incessantly saves him from having to continue looking at Hank’s amused expression.

He sighs after reading the barrage of texts. He has Markus on speed dial, and the man’s irate voice soon floods the kitchen. The call isn’t on speaker, but Markus is livid and screaming.

“NO PHONE CALL. NO TEXT. YOU COULD’VE BEEN DEAD.” Connor winces slightly and tries to interrupt, but Markus steamrolls through his feeble attempts of an apology. “I SWEAR TO GOD, CONNOR. IF YOU’RE ACTUALLY FUCKING PROFESSOR ANDERSON, I WILL KILL YOU.” If the ground could open up and swallow Connor whole, he would be a happy man.

He steals a glance at Hank, who’s expression betrays nothing. Hank waving his hand at Connor in a _gimme_ motion shocks him into compliance. Before he realizes what’s happening, Hank is speaking into the phone.

“Good morning, this is Professor Anderson.” Markus’ irate screaming cuts off in a comical gurgling sound. “Connor is not dead and we are not _fucking_ , but thank you for your concern.” Connor isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or to cry at the scene unfolding in front of him. Hank continues his conversation with Markus for a moment while Connor stares at the wall unhearing and tight-lipped.

A nudge from Hank brings him back to the present. “Your phone,” he says simply before handing it over to Connor. “Your friend is coming to get you. He says he will be here in fifteen minutes.”

Connor groans and slouches deeply into his seat, “You don’t by any chance have an escape hatch or a window I can jump out of when he gets here?”

Hank laughs before asking, half-joking half-serious, “He the boyfriend?” Connor’s reaction is instant repulsion. His mouth draws down into a frown while his nose crinkles comically.

“Absolutely not. We would kill each other.” Hank chuckles and points out Markus has already threatened to do so. Hank looks at him expectantly and Connor realizes he’s looking for an explanation for that disaster of a phone call, “He’s my roommate. We’ve been friends for years. He was out with me last night, but he left before the shots. I forgot to text him that I would be staying…out,” his eyes flick to Hank’s face before returning to stare at his phone. “He can be a bit of a worry wart.”

“You don’t say.” Hank resists the urge to laugh again because Connor looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Yeah, so if I could just hide under your bed until Markus gives up on finding me, that would be great.”

Hank can’t suppress the laugh this time and Connor glares at him, which only makes him laugh harder. “He can’t be that bad. What’s he gonna do, ground you like a teenager out past his curfew?”

Connor grimaces before offering, “If only. Then I could hide in my room and not have to deal with his outrage.”

Hank considers letting it go, but he’s got a good enough read on Connor to push, “So what about the other part?”

Connor’s panicked eyes meet Hank’s before darting around to focus on anything else, “Uh, what other part?”

Hank levels an unamused look at Connor, “The fucking part.” Connor cringes further down in his chair before running a hand over his face. Hank presses again, “Is that what you came here for last night?” He knows if he forces the issue any harder that Connor will break, and not how he wants him to, so he fixes Connor with a pleasant expression and waits. 

Connor opens his mouth to reply when a furious pounding on the door makes all the color drain from his face, “Markus is here.”

Connor doesn’t seem inclined to move so Hank goes to the door. Markus, as it turns out, does have a pretty terrifying angry face. Hank recognizes him as another former student and gives him a slight nod. His mismatched irises make for a memorable feature. Markus, however, only has eyes only for Connor.

“There you are. Car. Now.” Connor rises wearily like a condemned man who’s excepted his fate. Hank tries to find the situation humorous, but Connor’s miserable face ruins the attempt. He makes his decision the moment Connor is about to pass him. He rears back his hand and swats Connor’s ass with enough power to make him skip forward and yelp a little, more shocked than pained.

It is worth every second of watching Connor and Markus’ reactions, equal in force but opposite in emotion. Connor is clearly mortified, but heat stirs to life behind warm, brown eyes. Markus seems so shocked that he may never speak again.

“Whenever you’re done fussing at him, send him back my way.” Hank leans against the back of his couch, crossing his arms. Both men stare at him mutely before Hank adds, “To finish our conversation about fucking.” Red infuses every inch of Connor’s face from the bottom of his chin to the tips of his ears.

Markus’ mouth is slightly ajar and his arm gropes weakly in Connor’s direction. When his fingers find purchase, he pulls Connor from the house. Hank waves at them both before shutting the door.

***

“What on earth have you been doing?” Connor isn’t sure if he’s glad for Hank’s antics or terrified. On the one hand, it seems to have taken the fury out of Markus’ campaign of Death by Shouting. On the other, Connor’s half-formed fantasies of his professor were trying to take shape in reality.

Connor runs a hand through his hair and sighs, “I have no idea. North bought shots. It’s her fault.” Markus shoots Connor a significant degree of side eye before focusing his attention on driving again. “I don’t know, I was buzzed and I was mad. He gave me a ninety-one on the final.” Markus immediately hits the brakes to pull over, and Connor feels his seatbelt dig into his chest.

“He gave you an _A_ and you were _mad_ about it? That man’s never given anyone an A. Ever.”

Connor feels like a whining child, but he can’t stop the words, “It’s not that. Not really. He said it was a nice _attempt_ at passion.” He huffs and hunches as deep as he can into the passenger seat, trying to hide from Markus’ disbelieving stare.

“So you…what? You went over to prove your passion?” Markus can’t suppress the snicker trying to escape his throat and Connor stiffens at the sound.

“Two minutes ago you were ready to kill me and now you’re laughing at my supreme humiliation. What a day this is turning out to be.” Connor turns to gaze out the window so he doesn’t have to see Markus smiling at him.

“C’mon Connor. Yeah, I was mad. You scared the shit out of me, but this? This is pure gold. You got hammered—,”

“I was _tipsy_.”

“—and then you practically threw yourself at our professor—,”

“Oh, I did _not_.”

“—and then he _smacked you on the ass_ on your way out. He’s down for it. This is the best day of my life. I can’t wait to tell North—,”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Connor’s panicked voice sends Markus into another fit of laughter. Once he calms down, he pulls back out onto the road. He’s quiet for a moment before asking, “You’re going back over there, aren’t you?”

Connor’s quiet for a minute, but he already knows his answer. His brain and his body are both thrumming with so much _yes_ , Connor’s surprised Markus can’t sense it. He’s almost decided on a response when Markus says, “Better your ass than mine,” and Connor nearly chokes before deciding Markus doesn’t deserve an answer.

This is how he finds himself, freshly showered with slightly damp hair, outside of Hank’s house at 8:00pm on a Sunday. He feels a remarkable sense of _déjà vu_ as he stands there with his hand hovering over the door, unable to bring himself to knock.

***

Hank’s getting impatient waiting on Connor. He’d received his text and they played another round of cat and mouse before Connor informed him he would be coming by around “7:30-8:00ish” as Connor had put it. The _ish_ is irritating, but Hank knows Connor’s nervous. He snorts at the thought. What student wouldn’t be nervous about their giant bear of a professor trying to fuck them ten ways to next Tuesday?

 _Reign it the fuck in, Hank_. He chastises himself. Best not to put the cart in front of the horse. Connor may just want to talk, after all. He highly doubts it, but he’d rather not end up a sad lonely sack of shit jerking it in the shower later because he let his brain run wild.

At 8:05, Hank’s willingness to give Connor an inch of understanding evaporates. He snatches his phone irritably before punching out a text.

“Where are you?” He hits send and hears an almost immediate ping on the other side of his front door.

“Oh, you have got to be shitting me.” The words are rough, but Hank’s exasperation melts into amusement when he hears a frantic thumping at his front door. When he opens it, he sees Connor standing there trying to look as casual as possible and _not_ like he’d just been standing there for several minutes unable to man up and knock.

“Sorry, I’m late. I had, um, I had to help Markus with…a thing.” Hank lets the obvious lie go; there’s no need to push Connor when he’s so on edge already.

“Want a beer?” Connor’s immediate and relieved _yes_ makes Hank chuckle. He grabs a couple of bottles from his refrigerator before handing one to Connor.

“For your nerves,” he says it simply and Connor takes a hearty swallow before sitting down next to Hank. Now that he’s here, Hank’s at a bit of a loss. He’s not sure what to do with him. He knows _what_ he wants to do, but convincing Connor was another matter altogether. He could ask the blunt question he supposes, but Connor is still young and probably has preconceived notions of how sex is supposed to work. That thought gives Hank pause. Does Connor want to be wooed? Hank has no clue and is beginning to think he’s made too big a leap from teasing Connor about sex to outright trying to fuck him.

Connor had fallen silent while drinking his beer, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Hank thinks he looks calculating, like he’s trying to bridge the same gap as Hank and likely coming to a similar conclusion. Hank’s about to speak, to tell Connor he doesn’t have any expectations and they can actually just talk when Connor lifts up his feet and very deliberately puts them on the coffee table.

Hank stares at Connor’s shoes on his table in stunned silence before swatting at them, “Get your shoes _off_ my coffee table. What’s the matter with you?”

“I asked you that question once and got fuck all for an answer.” Hank doesn’t expect this prickly retort and is about to tell Connor to shove off until he sees that he’s smiling. It’s at odds with his tone and entire demeanor since sitting his ass down on Hank’s couch.

“What did I tell you about sass?” Genuine irritation filters into Hank’s voice because Connor is being rude on purpose.

Connor sits up straighter and lets a smug smile consume his face, “What are you going to do about it?” The comment shoots straight to Hank’s groin and makes his palm itch. Instant realization at what Connor’s been playing at flares to life. If he wants to play that game, Hank is more than willing.

“Stand up.” He expects Connor to ask questions or hesitate, but he bolts up immediately. Hank rises with him then sets off for his room, Connor following silently. The second the door closes, Connor is on him. Hank lets him have his moment and laughs quietly through his nose as he watches Connor try to undress him. Hank’s larger and taller than Connor; getting his shirt off is proving to be a challenge so Hank lends him a hand.

When his tattoo comes into view, Connor’s hands are on it immediately. Hank’s not used to people wanting to touch him and it’s a bit unnerving. After Connor’s exploration of his chest starts to get a little more than uncomfortable, Hank grabs both his wrists.

“Someone is a little more dressed than I would care for.” Connor sets about yanking off his shirt and shucking off his pants with such enthusiasm, Hank can’t help but wonder how long he’s been fantasizing about having sex with his professor. Hank works at his belt before dropping down to his bed to kick off his pants. He takes a moment to take in Connor’s body and is more than pleased by what he sees. The urge to touch him is overwhelming.

Once they’re both down to their boxers, and much sooner than Connor anticipated if his little yelp is anything to go by, Hank grabs him by the arm and hauls him over his lap. Connor flails and tries to twist around, but Hank’s large hands pin him in place until he stops thrashing.

“You want me to stop, you say _red_ , got it?”

Hank watches Connor’s Adam’s apple bob in a slow swallow before he nods his head a fraction. Hank raises his hand high before bringing it down on Connor’s ass and he allows himself a slight squeeze before assessing Connor’s reaction. The tiniest of moans escape his mouth and Hank wishes he could save it as a recording for all of time.

Connor’s head is bowed slightly with his elbows propped up on the bed, hands clasped. He’s tense with waiting and Hank knows it. When Connor finally relaxes, Hank brings his hand down on the other side, right where the meat of Connor’s ass meets his thigh. Connor lurches forward, a small, “Oh, my god,” escaping his mouth.

Hank can feel Connor getting hard, egging on his own arousal. Hank knows what he’s doing, knows how to alternate, how to cup his hand just so to maximize the impact and sound without triggering too much pain. It’s the sound of it that usually gets people going and Connor appears to be no exception.

Having had enough of Connor’s boxers being in the way, Hank goes to yank them down when Connor’s hands fly back trying to stop him. Hank grabs both of them, crossing them before pinning them to the small of Connor’s back. Connor’s slight frame lends him delicate wrists and Hank can hold them both together in one of his large hands.

Profanities keep tumbling out of Connor’s mouth as he struggles against Hank’s grip. A sharp smack to the thigh freezes Connor in place.

“Don’t forget,” Hank runs his hands gently up and down Connor’s thigh, soothing away the sting he’d put there moments ago, “if you’re done, say red.” Connor’s breathing hard despite just getting started and Hank wonders how much Connor denies himself the things he wants most. This small amount of touch shouldn’t be sending him into a frenzy.

Hank considers Connor for a moment before deciding he’s going to have to test certain waters to figure out what Connor likes. He doubts the man would tell him even if he knew. Being face down, ass up over his former professor’s lap hasn’t rid him of his bashfulness. Connor has his face buried in Hank’s comforter, a heavy blush peeking along the exposed edge of his jawline. He offers no resistance at Hank's second attempt to remove his boxers.

Hank lifts his hand in the air and he hears Connor suck in a breath before he brings it down slightly harder than Connor has become accustomed to. His voice cracks slightly around the yelp that escapes him and Hank eyeballs the reddening mark he’d made.

“Your ass blushes just as prettily as your face does.”

Connor groans loudly in a mix of arousal and embarrassment. Hank had hoped to goad Connor into speech and Connor doesn’t disappoint, “Hank, please don’t—,” _Time for test number one_ , Hank thinks as he smacks Connor’s ass much harder than anyone would find pleasurable.

Before Connor can protest, Hank reaches with his free hand to thread his fingers through Connor’s hair. He tugs slightly and lowers his mouth to Connor’s ear. Connor’s breath hitches and Hank growls out, “If you’re going to keep running your mouth, then you’d do best to call me _sir_.” Connor thrusts down at the statement in a wanton hump he clearly didn’t intend to perform. _Bingo._ Hank smiles at his correct assumption. Connor’s got a thing for authority figures.

Mortification seizes Connor’s body and he tries to twist away again until Hank’s hand lands across the same spot as before, a painful jolt stilling Connor’s frantic movements. Hank makes soft shushing sounds, trying to calm Connor down, while rubbing his thumb lightly over the angry red mark.

“Do you want me to stop?” He says it teasingly, knowing full well Connor doesn’t, but he wants to see how far he can push.

“No.” Connor says it quietly and Hank smiles before asking,

“No, what?” Connor whimpers into the mattress, well aware of what Hank wants him to say.

When he remains silent, Hank brings his hand down across Connor’s ass in rapid succession until he cries out, “No, sir!”

Hank worries slightly about Connor’s limits, not wanting to end the evening with him shouting _red_ , but the raging erection pressing down against his own quiets those concerns. The entirety of Connor’s ass is various shades of mottled reds and pinks and Hank takes care to stay away from the most livid sections. While part of him wants Connor to be sitting gingerly tomorrow, he also wants Connor to be willing to do this with him again. _First impressions, Hank_ , he admonishes himself.

He continues for several minutes, Connor’s attempts to quiet himself failing miserably as small yelps turn into loud moans. He’s freely humping against Hank now, desperately chasing a release he can’t attain from his current position. Hank can see drool collecting at the corner of Connor’s mouth as desire clouds over any semblance of self-control in Connor’s eyes.

He pauses and releases Connor’s arms. He tries to sit up, but Hank stops him with a gentle press of his hand to the small of Connor’s back. Connor flops back down on the bed, rolling his shoulders, trying to ease out the tightness from being held in an awkward position for so long. Hank reaches back toward his bedside drawer and gropes for a bottle of lube.

He pops the top before pausing and asking, “You showered, right?” and Connor laughs out a yes in response.

Hank’s hand trails down between Connor’s cheeks, searching for his puckered hole before running a lubed up finger around the rim. The ring of thick muscle tenses slightly before relaxing and Hank toys with it, brushing the tip of his finger against it, making Connor shudder. He presses forward and the first unashamed moan filters out of Connor’s mouth, his need for stimulation outweighing his ability to be embarrassed.

Hank pumps into Connor a few more times before adding a second finger, drawing a strangled gasp from Connor. Hank’s fingers are thicker than the average man’s, but Hank also knows _he’s_ thicker than the average man so he takes his time working Connor open. He scissors into Connor, stretching him, before adding a third finger.

The first time Hank brushes against Connor’s prostate, he’s certain the man is going to faint. Connor fists his hands into his hair and nearly screams into Hank’s mattress. Hank freezes for a moment before thinking to ask, “This isn’t your first time, right?” He realizes the ridiculousness of asking that question now, but it would change a lot of things.

Connor shakes his head no, “Not my first, no…no, sir.” Hank smiles broadly and rewards Connor with another thrust to his prostate. Connor rocks back into it, trying to seek more, and his freed cock drags across Hank’s clothed one.

The sensation pushes Hank over the edge. He heaves Connor up and onto his back before standing and dragging Connor to the end of the mattress. He paws around the draw again for a condom and grabs the lube for good measure. When Hank pulls off his boxers, Connor stares at his cock in open astonishment.

“That’s not going to fit.”

Hank laughs and ruffles Connor’s hair. “It’ll be fine,” he pauses for a moment before asking, “Unless you want to stop?” Connor seems to consider it for a moment, but lust has a way of making decisions for people and Connor is no exception.

He shakes his head before asking, “Just go slow, ok?” Hanks agrees while silently wondering what pencil-dicked assholes Connor’s let fuck him in the past. It’s pretty much common fucking courtesy not to ram it all in at once.

Hank applies more lube to his fingers and pumps his cock a few times before fingering Connor again, double checking to make sure he’s ready. Connor bends his knees, pulling his feet closer to his ass while spreading his legs. Hank takes a moment to admire the erotic display before lining up his dick and pushing forward slightly. Connor hisses against the first small thrust. True to his word, Hank goes slow, impaling Connor a fraction of an inch at a time. He runs his hand down Connor’s stomach and he flinches at the unexpected touch.

“You’re doing great, Connor. Just relax.” He fondles Connor’s dick, stroking him a few times and Connor thrusts down, pursuing the sensation. “There you go,” Hank croons above him. He didn’t think it was possible after everything he’s done and said to Connor this evening, but the man blushes again. _Huh,_ Hank thinks to himself, _he likes praise_. It’s not much of a surprise given how much Connor is obsessed with his grades and performing well in school.

When Hank bottoms out, a whimper escapes Connor’s mouth and his hands are back in his hair. His chest is heaving in such a way that Hank wonders if sex is going to break Connor in half. In the end, it’s Connor who demands action.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?”

The question surprises Hank and all he can think to ask is, “What?”

Connor tilts his head and regards Hank quietly before asking, “Are you going to fuck me…sir?” Hank has to bite back a laugh. It wasn’t what he meant, but he gives Connor points for tenacity. In response, Hank pulls out and thrusts in, judging how much force Connor can take.

Connor throws his head back and arches up off the mattress. As reserved as he was in class, Hank never expected he’d be this expressive in bed. Not that Hank had really ever given the matter much thought until a few days ago, but still.

“Touch yourself,” he murmurs and Connor is quick to obey. Hank picks up his pace, pushing into Connor a little faster and harder with each thrust. Hank hooks Connor’s legs over his arms for better leverage and slams full force into him.

Connor makes a sound bordering on a shriek, and Hank’s on the verge of dropping his legs when Connor whispers, “Don’t stop.” Whatever Hank has done to earn this moment, he sincerely hopes he can repeat it numerous times. Leaning into Connor, Hank resumes his pace, soaking in every sound Connor makes.

Connor is babbling and swearing freely, his hand working his dick with intense fervor. “Hank,” Hank can tell by Connor’s voice that he’s close, “Hank, I’m going to—,” A particularly brutal thrust cuts Connor off mid-speech and Hank feels him tense around him. Connor screams out his orgasm, Hank’s name tumbling from his lips over and over while Hank pushes through it, chasing his own release. He can hear Connor talking, sounding near tears. He knows Connor’s overstimulated and his willingness to let Hank keep going pushes him over the edge.

With a stuttered set of thrusts, Hank reaches his peak with a blinding burst of stars. He’s breathing heavily and is dimly aware he’s probably crushing Connor. Pushing himself up and out of Connor, he feels the wet slap of his flagging cock against his thigh. Connor is staring numbly at the ceiling, appearing incapable of movement for the time being.

When Hank tosses a rag to him, however, he catches it in the air, not as out of it as he seems. _Praise_ Hank thinks to himself, realizing why Connor seems so impassive in the aftermath. After removing and tying off the condom, Hank collapses on the bed next to Connor. When Hank rolls to his side and hauls Connor’s back up against his chest, he’s pleased by the small squeak Connor makes.

“Didn’t know you could make that sound,” Hank mutters teasingly into Connor’s hair. After a long moment, Hank adds, “You did well,” feeling incredibly stupid saying it. When Connor sighs and relaxes into him, he knows it’s what Connor needed to hear.

“You are the worst,” Connor mumbles, the tops of his ears going red.

Hank playfully slaps at the curve of Connor’s ass, “Careful what you say to me. I’m keeping tabs for next time.” Hank laughs easily, but Connor wiggles around until he’s facing him.

“Next time?” It a question and a hopeful one. Hank closes his eyes, feeling sleep tug at his consciousness. When he opens them again, Connor is regarding him with a fragile expression. Hank realizes in their zeal to get down to it, he’d overlooked one rather important element. He props himself up on one elbow and Connor rolls onto his back to look up at him. Hank closes the distance, kissing Connor for the first time, reveling at how soft his lips feel.

When he pulls back up, he smiles down at Connor before saying, “Well, I do have office hours starting in a couple of weeks on Mondays and Wednesdays.” His eyes crinkle mischievously and Connor lightly punches him in the chest.

“You are terrible.”

“Truly awful,” Hank agrees, “Doesn’t say much for your taste.” Connor laughs deeply at that and starts tracing Hank’s tattoo with his forefinger.

“I’m free most weekends now that I don’t have to study for impossible exams. I had this one professor who drove me a little nuts. He said I lacked passion.”

“Sounds like a dick and an idiot to boot.” Connor lets out a pleased _hmm_ and Hank adds, “Saturday works for me if I can’t see you sooner.” Connor’s response is to burrow his face into Hank’s neck, both of them drifting off into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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